Footsies
by hpgleek713
Summary: A project for the Johnlock gift exchange, written for colorcolour, whose prompt was "footsies". John's a bit depressed this Valentine's Day... it's his first in a very long time without a date. It doesn't help that his marriage has just fallen apart. Sherlock just wants to make John smile again. Ridiculous socks, sexual tension, and cuddly smut. What more could you ask for? Enjoy!


**Here's part two of my Valentine's Day present for colorcolour on tumblr for the Johnlock Valentine's gift exchange. The prompt was "Footsies". It's there if you squint, I promise. Companion picture at **

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**Hope**** you enjoy!**

**(Sorry it's a bit late. First time publishing smut... I was a little nervous lol)**

* * *

Sherlock wasn't quite sure, but he felt as though John was a bit listless this particular day.

To be fair, the last year hadn't been easy for him.

Not long after choosing to stay with Mary, despite knowing what little they knew of her secret, John had realised how impossible his choice had been. He snapped at the most ridiculous things, and Mary was at a loss of what to do besides apologise constantly. Which usually didn't do anything but grate on John's already frayed nerves further.

It didn't take long for them to come to the inevitable conclusion... This was simply not going to work.

The annullment was surprisingly amiable and efficient. (John had his suspicions that Mycroft had something to do with the abnormally efficient legalities, though he'd never brought it up). He and Mary were quick to agree on most things, wanting it over and done with as soon as humanly possible. John had already decided he would move back into Baker Street, and didn't have that many possessions he was keen on fighting over.

They would remain partners when it came to matters about the baby. John would attend the appropriate doctor's visits and do everything in his power to support his little girl. They would decide on custody when she was born, but were nearly certain they'd decide on equal custody. They didn't live very far away, so it didn't seem like it would be a problem.

Sherlock's heart broke watching John go through an annulment mere months after getting married. He had tried _everything_ to help John and Mary patch things up, but to no avail.

Emotions really were strange, he mused sometimes. Despite the desperate love he'd come to realise he felt for John, Sherlock would rather he stay married to Mary than have to separate and come back to Baker Street. Even though he was elated to have John all to himself, and had been thoroughly miserable whenever he thought of how little John seemed to need him once he had Mary in his life.

Yes, feelings seemed absurdly contradictory. But Sherlock couldn't do anything about them, and he certainly wasn't going to burden John with them. John had enough on is plate as it was, without adding unrequited love into the mix. So Sherlock had kept quiet.

He had been getting better, though, John had. He had been smiling more often, going on cases with Sherlock and nagging him about mundane things like eating and sleeping... It felt like it did before the fall had gone and thrown a bomb into their unorthodox friendship.

Which is why it was so strange for John to suddenly be so... _morose_ today. It wasn't the bouts of depression he sometimes suffered when he fixated too much on his failed marriage, Sherlock observed. It was a bit too superficial for that. He just seemed to be sad. Almost wistful as he ate his toast in silence while watching news on the telly.

Sherlock watched his friend in frustration. How could he help if he didn't understand what was _wrong?_ It wasn't as though he could simply _ask_ John what was wrong. The probable outcome of that would be even more sadness, and Sherlock wanted to avoid being the cause of that again, if at all possible.

As John sighed and went into his room to dress for the day, Sherlock noticed him stop and stare at the telly silently for a moment. Without another word, he shook his head and climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he turned his attentions to the telly. The reporter was interviewing the owners of a small, family-run chocolate shop. They were discussing how much their sales increased on Valentine's Day.

Valentine's Day... Sherlock frowned and pulled out his phone. Sure enough, it was February 14th. Not that Sherlock had ever cared about the ridiculous holiday. But when he was younger, he had been much more vigilant about the date, not wanting to even go to school and risk being handed a valentine or... even worse... sitting alone at his desk with not a single scrap of paper from anyone.

_Of course!_ Sherlock realised, nearly smacking himself in the head. He had been so stupid. John hadn't begun dating again since he and Mary had separated. Understandable, given how little time had passed since then. But John was a romantic, and sentimental. He never had one-night stands, only girlfriends. He enjoyed taking care of people. He was the sort of man who always had a date for Valentine's Day.

So for him to be _alone_ on Valentine's Day–which, Sherlock thought back and realised, he never had been–must be quite disheartening. Especially so soon after leaving Mary, who he'd undoubtedly spent a perfectly lovely Valentine's Day with the year before.

Sherlock thought about it and realised that he wanted to do something for John. John did so much for him, it was only fair. It wasn't as though he couldn't get John a little something for the holiday without it being strange, could it? He didn't want to make John uncomfortable–platonic friends gave gifts on Valentine's Day, didn't they? Or was that just women?–but he wanted to do something special. _Anything_ to help John realise that there was still someone in the world who loved him unconditionally, even if he didn't _quite_ understand the depth of that love.

After glancing once more at the stairs leading up to John's room. Sherlock grabbed his coat and scarf and headed out the door

* * *

When John emerged from his room after dressing, Sherlock had been nowhere to be found. While he always preferred being in Sherlock's company, John was actually a bit relieved. He didn't think himself stupid enough to believe that Sherlock hadn't noticed him moping about the flat all morning. God, it was embarrassing. He was a nearly forty-year-old man, an army veteran, he had killed people for God's sakes... and he was acting like a brokenhearted teenage girl without a Valentine. He supposed he should be grateful that he could now do his moping in peace.

_No, _hedecided firmly. He was not going to sit around and cry all day. It was his choice not to start dating again after the whole fiasco with Mary. And he was not going to bloody well regret it now. Even if he couldn't remember the last time he'd been sans date for the holiday.

He reassure himself that it would be a normal evening in. He'd watch telly, order some takeaway, force Sherlock to take a break from his sodding experiments and eat, then go to bed. Just like every other night.

The thought caused a lump in his throat.

He grabbed his coat, wallet, and keys and headed out to run some errands. Which, if he had estimated properly, would keep him busy until almost dinner. Busy enough that he wouldn't obsess too much over the blasted holiday. Who needed a girlfriend, anyway?

He had a date with a Tescos shopping cart and his mad flatmate.

* * *

When John came home later that evening, it was to the smell of something absolutely delicious. Remembering the last time this had happened, he entered the flat cautiously, visions of cherry pie-splattered walls bouncing around in his skull.

He was shocked to see Sherlock standing next to the dining table, looking almost... shy? Uncertain? He gave John a small smile. "Hello," he greeted politely.

John glanced with utter amazement at the table. It had been cleaned, for one thing. Not a petri dish in sight. And it was laid out for dinner. Nothing fancy, really, but the two dishes of pasta looked delicious, and a bottle of wine stood corked next to two glasses at the end of the table. Nothing else stood on the table but a salt and pepper shaker, napkins and silverware. But it was clear that Sherlock had gone to some effort. More than he was often willing to exert outside a crime scene.

"What's all this, then?" John asked once the shock cleared away enough for him to think coherently.

Sherlock averted his gaze and took a deep breath. "I... I know why you were so quiet this morning," he began, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. John just blinked at him, wondering where on earth this was going.

"Okay..?" he answered hesitatingly, for it seemed Sherlock wasn't going to continue without proper encouragement.

Sherlock swallowed. "You're upset over not having a date for Valentine's Day. I realise the holiday must be painful for you, especially so soon after everything with Mary."

John felt his heart tug at the truth he'd been trying to avoid all day. "Well. Yeah, I suppose," he interjected.

"With everything you've been through the last few weeks, I... I wanted to show you that you were still loved, even if it doesn't always seem like it to you. You deserve to be happy on Valentine's Day, even if the bloody holiday is riddled with historical inaccuracies and cheap consumerism," he scoffed.

"Thanks...?" John answered, touched even if he was a bit confused.

Sherlock nodded and reached for a small package on the counter. It was about the size of John's fist, and was messily wrapped in newspaper and shoelaces. He thrust it at John, who just stood there and blinked at it.

"Oh for God's sakes," Sherlock huffed, beginning to blush. He stepped forward and grabbed John's hand, shoving the small package into his hand. "Here."

John stared at the present in his hand, then looked up at Sherlock. "You..." he stopped to collect his fuzzy thoughts. "You got me a gift? And made dinner? For _Valentine's Day?" _Try as he might, he couldn't make sense of any of it. "Just... Because I was sad?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied firmly, despite wishing the world would open up and swallow him. Had he done something wrong? He'd wanted to make John feel better. "I admit that Mrs. Hudson had a hand in helping me cook, but I did most of it and cleaned the kitchen myself. Well..." He glanced over. "The table, at least." He looked at John, trying not to act so pathetically anxious. "My apologies if... I realise it's not traditional for men to give each other gifts for Valentine's Day, but I wanted to do something, and... If I did something wrong—"

"Don't apologise," John interrupted, cutting off Sherlock's nonsensical babbling. "God, Sherlock, this is..." He looked down at the present. "You _hate_ Valentine's Day, Sherlock. But you... You did all this. For me." He looked up and grinned helplessly, thoroughly moved by all of it, right down to Sherlock's shy, flickering gaze. "This is... Wow. Thank you, Sherlock. This... It means a lot to me."

Sherlock smiled in relief, then nodded to the small present. "Aren't you going to open that?" he prompted.

"Not yet, I don't think," John said, looking around Sherlock at the plates of food. "After all, you've slaved over this _lovely_ dinner. Let's not let it go to waste, yeah?" He beamed at Sherlock and made his way to the table, squeezing his friends arm as he passed.

He and Sherlock sat down, and John uncorked the bottle of wine. He poured a glass for each of them and raised his towards Sherlock.

"Thank you," he said fervently. "This is just... Thank you."

"You're welcome, John," Sherlock replied with a soft smile, tapping his glass against John's.

* * *

"That was bloody amazing," John commented as he carried a glass of wine and his little gift into the sitting room. He sat on the sofa and leaned back, patting his stomach. "I ought to make you cook more often."

Sherlock snorted. "Don't get your hopes up. Anyway, I told you, Mrs. Hudson helped out." He carried his own glass with him and sat down on the other end of the couch. "Go on then, open it."

John set down his wine glass and unwrapped his gift. He half expected it to be another essay, perhaps this time on why he was unlovable. He pushed the thought away with annoyance and tore away the newspaper to reveal... Socks?

"...Socks?"

Sherlock shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I wanted to get you something, but I had very little time and wasn't entirely sure what was considered an appropriate Valentine's Day gift for a friend."

John studied the socks with some bemusement. The were pink and grey striped, with little hearts on the grey stripes and little skulls on the pink ones. "Skulls?" he asked, laughing a bit as he toed off his own shoes and socks and pulled them on. He flexed his feet experimentally. They were warm, and actually quite comfortable.

"Yes. I found them and... I don't know..." He looked down into his glass and swirled it around. "Heart and mind, isn't that what we are? I saw them and thought of you. Thought of... you know. Us." Embarrassment began trickling through his bloodstream. "I realise they're not much, but I hoped they would..." he trailed off.

"What?" John asked in a low voice, suddenly getting the feeling that things were shifting into a more serious gear.

Sherlock looked right at John and shrugged. "Make you smile," he replied softly.

John's breath caught in his throat. Sherlock was looking at him with such vulnerability, it was almost overwhelming. He was laying his heart out in front of John and trusting him not to step all over it.

Suddenly, a lot of things over the last few months made much more sense. Ever since Sherlock had returned, John had been aware that things were different between them. HW wasn't quite sure what it was, but had suspected it had something to do with Mary. While he was obviously very supportive of their relationship, John could tell that he missed it being just the two of them._ Just the two of us against the rest of the world..._

He would sometimes catch glimpses of vulnerability and emotion from Sherlock that he had never seen before. Like when he'd told Sherlock _of course. Of course you're my best friend. _Or that entire best man speech, when he admitted to loving John, and being honoured to be his best friend. Or when Sherlock had so uncerimoniously informed them about Mary's pregnancy, and for a moment hadn't even bothered trying to hide his sadness from John. Or when Sherlock had killed a man for him, just to keep John and his family safe and happy.

Sherlock had spent all of his time since coming home doing everything in his power to _make John happy. _Even if it had meant going out on a fucking suicide mission after killing Magnussen. For John.

And now he was here, again, going out of his way to make dinner and acquire a gift for John for a holiday he didn't enjoy nor celebrate. He had seen a pair of ridiculous socks and they had made him think of John.

Sherlock was in love with him.

And John had been so _blind. _

Hypnotized by Sherlock's earnest, almost shy gaze, John leaned forward slowly. He watched as Sherlock's eyes went wide in shock. "John," he breathed. "What... What are you doing?"

John stopped when they were centimeters apart, nose tips rubbing together and creating tiny sparks of friction. His heart pounded in his chest. Christ, he really, _really_ hoped he wasn't misreading things here.

"Is this all right?" he whispered against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered a bit, and John cheered silently. Sherlock sat silently for a moment, then nodded jerkily. The corner of John's mouth twitched in a small smile. He moved in closer at a glacial pace before finally, _finally_ brushing against Sherlock's lips.

The shudder that coursed through Sherlock's body was electric and addicting, and caused John's skin to tingle. He pressed more firmly, sliding a hand into Sherlock's curls and guiding him where he wanted him.

After a few seconds of teasing, chaste brushes, Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat and lifted a cautious hand to grip John's arm. He ran his tongue tentatively across John's bottom lip, moaning quietly at the taste and cataloging it for future reference.

John complied, parting his lips and eagerly stroking his tongue across every sensitive surface in Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock was helpless against this onslaught, and could only whimper at John's bold, quiet command of the kiss.

Once he could hear Sherlock's breath going ragged, John tore his mouth away and pressed hot, messy kisses across his jaw and down his smooth, pale throat. Sherlock threw his head back and groaned, "Oh _god!"_

John smiled, a thrill going through him at the thought that this was the most undone he had ever seen Sherlock, and it had happened just from a bit of snogging. He nipped lightly at the patch of skin connecting Sherlock's neck and shoulder, growling when Sherlock let out a sharp, shivery "Ohh" of pleasure.

As he worked his way back up to Sherlock's lips, John slid his hands from his friend's thick curls to the buttons of his deep red silk shirt. He made quick work of the damned things and pulled both shirt and suit jacket off of Sherlock's shoulders, tossing them carelessly to the floor.

"John," Sherlock whimpered into John's mouth. He began pulling at the man in question, arranging them on the sofa until John was lying heavy and warm on top of him. He yanked impatiently at John's jumper.

"Easy, love," John murmured soothingly, pressing soft, suckling kisses to the warm skin behind Sherlock's ear. "Easy..."

He waited until Sherlock had relaxed a little, then guided his hands underneath John's jumper, until they were running smoothly against bare skin. He trailed his hands upwards until the hem was at John's chin. Only then did John break away from Sherlock to pull it off and dump it with Sherlock's shirt and jacket.

He could feel Sherlock hot and hard in his trousers, and groaned at the idea that yes, Sherlock was hard and pliant and _wanting_ because of _him_. He rocked his hips down, slow and firm against the bulge forming at Sherlock's groin.

He was unprepared for the intense reaction. Sherlock arched off the sofa, arched into John, grinding their erections together desperately, and John saw stars. "Fuck," John moaned, and Sherlock nodded rapidly in agreement, his eyes shut tight and teeth digging into his bottom lip. He was fucking _gorgeous_.

"You're fucking _gorgeous_," John whispered hoarsely. "Christ, I've been an idiot."

"What...?" Sherlock began, panting heavily. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you have done so much for me, ever since we met, and I never thought..." He trailed a hand down Sherlock's stomach, letting it rest at his trouser button. Sherlock whimpered and arched into the touch, which John took as permission. "I never realised how much I absolutely adore you. How grateful I am to have you in my life. How _stupid_ I was for marrying Mary when I had the option to spend my life with you." He undid the button and zip and trailed his hand back up to Sherlock's face. "Look at me," he ordered softly.

Sherlock's eyes blinked open, his pupils heavily dilated and his gaze hazy and unfocused.

"I love you, Sherlock," John told him, surprised at how simple it was to say. How right it felt to say it, to this man, in this context. "And I'm sorry it took me so bloody long to realise it."

Sherlock's eyes cleared a bit, enough to focus on John completely, using the same gaze John knew and loved as his 'deducing' face. John didn't try to shield the emotion in his eyes at all.

Once Sherlock had come to the conclusion that _yes_, John was telling the truth and _no_, he wasn't going anywhere, he surged up and pressed a desperate, aching kiss to John's lips. He caged John's face in his hands and let the dam break, pouring out all his repressed love and pain and adoration for this seemingly ordinary man who had limped into his life and unlocked a part of Sherlock he didn't even know he possessed.

"I love you too," Sherlock groaned into the passionate kisses. "God, I love you. I have for so long, you have no idea—" John cut him off by palming Sherlock through his silk boxers. His heart broke at the thought of how much pain he must have caused Sherlock unknowingly. How much had it hurt when John had told him he loved him for the very first time, only to ask him to be his best man at his wedding to someone else as a result? John felt ill at the thought.

He pushed the thought aside for the time being and pulled Sherlock trousers and pants off his long legs, admiring the view with hungry eyes. Sherlock flushed in equal parts lust and embarrassment to be exposed in this way.

"You too," he demanded, eyes planted firmly on John's chest as he toed off his socks to follow the rest of his clothing.

John grinned, finding Sherlock's transparent attemlt at bravado absolutely adorable. He stood up off the couch for a moment to shuck his own jeans and boxers, before settling back down on top of Sherlock, groaning at the glorious skin-to-skin friction. _"Fuck."_

Sherlock willed himself to calm down a bit so he could take a moment to examine John's scar. He'd never really seen John shirtless for any considerable amount of time, and only had a superficial idea of what it looked like. He was absolutely entranced by it. He ran fingers over the raised skin.

"John," he whispered against the scar before pressing kisses all over the marred patch of flesh. "John, John, John... I'm sorry you endured such pain, but I am _eternally_ grateful to this scar."

"Why?" John asked softly. It was just an ugly patch of destroyed skin and nerves, and had sent him home from Afghanistan with a nasty case of PTSD... or whatever the hell it was he had. Women tended to avoid it when they had sex, pointedly focusing their attention elsewhere. No one had lavished such worshipful attention on it like this before. It was both incredibly hot and somewhat confusing.

Sherlock kissed his way back up to murmur in John's ear, "Don't be deliberately obtuse, John. Without this wound, you would have never been invalided back to London. You wouldn't have had need of a flat share, and Mike would have never had the opportunity to introduce us." He bit down sharply on the skin of his throat, suckling slowly. "I ought to send that man a Porsche," he chuckled against John's neck.

John burst out laughing and leant down to kiss Sherlock properly, feeling lightheaded with joy and affection and lust.

Sherlock giggled along with John's infectious laugh, tapering off as he felt the brush of fabric against his foot. He frowned. "Are you still wearing the socks?" he asked with furrowed eyebrows.

John looked over his shoulder. "Yep," he confirmed, grinning down at Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced too. "Well take them off. You look ridiculous."

"Mmmm..." John said, making a show of considering it. "Yeah, no. No, I don't think I will. I'm quite comfortable, thanks." He leaned down to press kisses to Sherlock's chest, flicking his tongue across his nipples.

Sherlock arched off the sofa before regaining his composure enough to argue, "What do you mean, 'no'? Take those things off." He attempted to toe them off of John's feet himself.

"I don't bloody well think so, Sherlock," John laughed as he tangled and wriggled his feet, trying to avoid Sherlock's flexible toes. They did look ridiculous, he realised, basically playing footsie, naked on the sofa, both of them now breathless with laughter.

Sherlock played dirty, John soon learned. He had slid his hands down John's back and grabbed two handfuls of his arse, rocking upwards with a lascivious thrust. By the time John's mind had cleared a bit, Sherlock had nearly removed one of his precious socks.

John gripped Sherlock's hands and pinned them above his head, looking down and his best friend, beautiful and perfect and flushed with happiness. This man was _his, _and he was never going to be idiotic enough to let him go ever again.

The air crackled between them, tasting more serious as they rocked together with more purpose. John slid his hands around and up to Sherlock's shoulder, holding him close as he thrust. He buried his face in Sherlock's neck, flushing impossibly hot as Sherlock cried and whimpered and groaned and stuttered at every press of their aching, throbbing erections.

It didn't take long for the sweltering heat to build to an unbearable plateau. Sherlock writhed in pleasure, muffling his cries into John's shoulder. "Oh— Oh god! Oh fuck. John, please. Please...!" he babbled.

John quickened his thrusts, rubbing them together in a burning frenzy. "Yes, Sherlock. _Yes_. Come for me, love. I love you so fucking much." He shifted and absolutely _devoured_ Sherlock's mouth, biting gently at his lips and groaning uncontrollably.

"Oh... love you—Oh! Oh, _oh_... Love you too... _John—!"_ Sherlock sobbed helplessly into John's mouth as he came. He jerked in John's arms and clutched at his face, his neck, his hair... Anything at all to ground him as he fell. John was never going to leave him. John _loved_ him. John was _his_.

Through his hazy afterglow, he watched in fascination as John rutted wildly against him, desperate to come. Sherlock pressed kisses to John's face and whispered, "I am never letting you go, John Watson. I love you, and you are _mine."_

_"Sherlock!"_ John cried, stilling and coming against his hip. Sherlock lifted pleasure-heavy arms to wrap around John's pliant, sweaty body, falling silent as they panted against each other.

After a moment, Sherlock shifted to sit up against the arm of the sofa, arranging John so he was snuggled against Sherlock's chest. He reached over John to grab a blanket that was thrown carelessly over the back of the sofa. He pulled it over their legs and settled back with John tucked securely in his arms.

"I love you, John," he murmured, feeling absurdly warm and happy and content. He pressed a kiss to the top of John's head, then nuzzled happily into his hair. "I will love you until my heart stops beating." Then he smiled privately. "Perhaps even beyond that."

John "mmm'd" sleepily and brushed his lips over Sherlock's chest. "Me too, love." He settled back down and fell into a deep blissful sleep.

Sherlock looked down at the sleeping man in his arms and marveled at how quickly his life had changed for the better. He didn't know what he'd done to deserve this man, this life, but he would damn well never let it go.

"Happy Valentine's Day, John."


End file.
